


Show, Don't Tell

by GhostFactory



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sett is kinda feral, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostFactory/pseuds/GhostFactory
Summary: A good friend of mine requested a story where Sett confesses that he is in love with Sylas (as part of an art trade)!This is the SFW version for General Audiences and Ace pals! Since there is some swearing, I decided to rate this teen and up.I hope you enjoy it!
Relationships: Sett/Sylas (League of Legends)
Kudos: 15





	Show, Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> *In this AU, Sylas has instead gone to Ionia first instead of the Freljord. He met Sett and formed an alliance with him for his future rebellion*

Sylas of Dregbourne puffs out another breath of exertion, and it rises lazily in front of him as a faint cloud of heat. Each of his footsteps hit the hard, frozen soil beneath his leather boots as he walks, muscular shoulders relaxed for once. 

Sylas pauses for a brief moment, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow before placing his hands on his hips. He gazes down at the sprawling Ionian vista that rests below the mountain path he stands upon, each breath slow and hot. The air here is thinner, yet crisp, shockingly cool as it hits the back of his throat. Through a heavy blanket of thick, grey clouds, the setting sun glazes the vast sea of trees down in the valley, all sparse of leaves from the approaching winter. Sylas closes his eyes as he sucks in a deep, slow breath, feeling at peace in this all-encompassing, natural beauty. 

It has truly been a wonderful day trip.

“Ah...how I love the free air...” the mage thinks to himself, thoughts interrupted as heavy footfalls begin to shake the very ground behind him. 

Usually, Sylas has his head on a swivel, ready for any assassin or would-be attacker coming his way, but lately, he found himself needing to worry far less about these sorts of issues. Ionia is a long, long way from his own miserable country, and not many were stupid enough to try to track him this far.

Or mess with Sett.

Scruffy stubble and warm, uneven breaths suddenly heat the curve of his scarred neck, soft lips pressing into exposed skin for a chaste moment. The flick of a fuzzy ear and silken hair tickle Sylas’ skin, causing a knowing smirk to crack over his expressionless visage.

“What cha’ doin’? Listenin’ for somethin’? You know that nobody is mad enough to come up here this late, well, cept’ for us that is, haha.”

“Good. I prefer it that way.”

The two men have spent most of the day sightseeing together around the mountain. They had paused for a picnic lunch at the peak, enjoying the vista below between bites of Sett’s mother’s cooking and sips of expensive wine. Though today’s excursion had been Sett’s idea, the fighter was oddly silent for a good portion of their trip, often fidgeting nervously with his claws (when he wasn’t sneaking looks at the Demacian beside him). Sylas hadn’t really minded, as he enjoys going anywhere with Sett at his side, but he did think it was rather odd for the overconfident half-vastayan.

Several minutes pass, but Sett doesn’t move from his spot. Instead, the half-vastayan wraps his burly arms around Sylas’ waist, pulling him closer to his rigid chest and further away from the edge of the cliffside path. They stand together like this for a while, simply breathing and enjoying the silence that's surrounding them. 

“...It’s fuckin’ freezing up here. You sure you ain’t cold?” Sett mumbles the question tenderly against an old scar, his tone gentle and genuine. 

Sett always seems to be worried about him. While Sylas still can’t process the idea of anyone worrying for him, the words make his chest feel warm despite the frigid air.

“You think this is cold?” Sylas replies back smoothly, his smirk giving way to a warm smile, “...I can’t wait till you see Demacia at this time of year, then you’ll know cold.” he finishes with a chuckle, unable to stop himself from smiling.

The velvety ear pressing into his neck twitches again; Sett’s thinking about something.

“Hey. Open your eyes for a sec’.”

Sylas indulges the man’s request begrudgingly, but he’s glad that he does. Tiny, white flakes of snow have begun to drift through the air, falling all around them. The sun is fully hidden now, blocked behind somber, grey clouds. 

Wordlessly, the mage extends both of his hands. Graupel floats onto his palms, evaporating in a flash at the warmth that radiates from his skin. 

Sylas can’t feel it anymore.

The nerves in his hands are severely damaged, fingers scarred and darkened, dead to feather-light sensations such as this from years of torture via petricite and heavy manacles. His dark brows furrow, eyes visibly saddened from the realization. 

It’s the first time Sylas has seen snow since he’s been free, but the sight only seems to remind him of what he’s lost.

“...I can’t…” Sylas whispers under his breath, as if he’s afraid to speak the fact into existence by finishing the sentence.

Before he can move, Sett’s arms slide away from his waist, the half-vastayan’s calloused fingers knitting through his own. Sett’s skin burns infinitely hotter, and his strength translates into something Sylas can feel very well. 

“It’s alright. You can feel me.”

Sylas leans more of his weight against Sett’s body, but he says nothing. 

This simple response is all that Sett needs in return. 

The odd pair stand joined together for a few moments longer, letting the snow melt into tiny puddles of water the moment it touches their hands. The snow is beginning to fall in thin sheets, dusting the dark furs of their lavish Ionian coats. Some of the cold flakes get in Sett’s ears, making them flick in response before they press flatter to his head.

“We should get going.” Sylas states to the man behind him. 

Part of the mage wishes that he could capture this moment under a bell jar, preserving the sights and emotions he’s experiencing forever. 

“You got it boss.” the brawler replies softly.

Sett then pulls away from Sylas’ body with a muted sigh, and he waits for the Demacian to join his side to continue down the path. These moments of affection are becoming all the more common between them, but Sylas still finds himself questioning as to how any of them occur in the first place. 

He knows that they are much closer than what many people would consider ‘friends’. They’ve enjoyed each other’s company in more ways than one. 

Hours upon hours of deep conversations. Arguments that became fistfights. His first shot of Ionian liquor. Showers that required secondary showers. Late-night discussions of revolution. Magic.

What exactly were they anymore?

There is more to their relationship than physical affection, but neither of them had said anything regarding their personal feelings. This has been their normal from day one.

As the two begin their trudge back down the mountainous trail, slush and mud slicken the ground. Sylas keeps a wary eye on Sett as the man gets a bit farther ahead of him, making sure he can still grab the back of his coat in case he slips. 

At first, the weather seemed like a nice addition to their little weekend venture, however, the longer they walk down the mountain, the thicker the sheets of white grow. They do not reach the half-way point down the path before the snow becomes more of a threat than a gift. 

Sylas’ thick hair is slightly damp from the constant snowfall, while Sett’s is sopping wet, his tall orange ears drooping miserably. Sett peers over his wide shoulders every so often, looking at his partner with growing concern each backward glance. 

The wind picks up, blowing snow over the pathway as it thickens before them. It's not long until they are slowing their walking pace by a significant measure, having to watch each step and plowing through rapidly worsening terrain. While the coats they have on are heavy, their boots and pants are not thick enough to keep out wind chill and slush. After what feels like half an hour of struggling through snow banks that only seem to climb higher, Sett comes to a sudden halt. He turns around to Sylas, shielding his golden eyes with a hand over his browline. The wind is blowing so hard that Sett has to yell over it.

“We need to stop! This is only goin’ to get worse, and its near dark!'' The half-vastayan warns over the snowy wind, pointing to a shallow cave nestled between the gray rocks along the mountain trail. 

“Somethin’ has the spirits here upset! We should rest for the night and head back down in the mornin’, ‘kay?!” Sett half yells, half explains, his sharp eyes flashing with nervousness.

From all the books he had read in his cell, Sylas knows that wild magic can be tumultuous, devastating to those too ignorant to respect it’s rare presence. 

If Sett says spirits are at unrest with a look like that on his face…

“Then we make camp! We’ll need a fire!” Sylas shouts back, wading his way closer to Sett. 

His boots are beyond soaked at this point, not doing anything to keep his feet warm. It’s in this moment that Sylas realizes just how dangerous their situation has become, as he no longer feels warm at all. The wind cuts through his coat as it blows harder against his back, whipping his raven hair in different directions.

“You let me handle that! Get inside and dry off!”

Sylas frowns, shaking his head between shivers in response as he nears the man. Sett is having none of it, however, and proceeds to pull the stubborn mage into the cave by his wrist once he gets close enough to reach him. Sylas swears in protest as the enormous man more or less drags him inside the stone cavern, the half-vastayan leaning over to enter inside without scraping his head on the smooth stone ceiling. 

“You’re not going out into wild magic by yourself, I'm coming with you! Don’t be ignorant!” Sylas barks at Sett, unable to separate from the sheer strength within the brawler’s grip. 

Sett’s ears then press flat, his expression full of remorse when he finally lets go of Sylas’ wrist and turns to face him. 

“I said I can handle it. This storm is...sorta'...my fault anyways. I’ll uh...I’ll explain when I get back. You take this an' make sure to keep it dry.” Sett instructs in a low tone of voice, pressing what appears to be a thin, metal box into Sylas’ palm. 

Sett’s smile simpers.

Something about this look on Sett’s face drives Sylas to avert his gaze, his stomach twisting into knots for reasons he can’t understand.

“Promise you will return.”

Sett runs his hand through Sylas’ wet, tangled hair, tenderly removing a knot with dark claws. His thumb then smoothes the mage’s brow, wiping some of the water off of his face. He's surprised when Sylas doesn't move at all, even when he brushes over the deep scar that divides the arch of his eyebrow.

Back when they first met many months ago, the Demacian used to flinch whenever Sett touched him. He'd recoil, stepping away in horror, his perfect blue eyes wild, like a warhorse that's witnessed far too many battles. Sylas would then apologize before finding some excuse to be alone, clearly angry with himself (and sometimes with Sett too), unable to deal with the innate desire to be loved conflicting with a learned distrust of others.

Now, Sylas instead pushes into Sett's fingertips, silently craving more affection but unable to keep eye contact. 

“I told you then, and I’ll tell you now” the brawler begins, leaning his head down close to Sylas' own, “...You will never be left alone in the dark ever again, not while I'm around. It's gonna' be fine, I promise.” Sett whispers to him, craning his neck to press a firm kiss to Sylas’ temple. His lips are burning but soft, warm and soothing to the touch.

Then the half-vastayan turns and leaves, quickly ducking out of the cave and back into the storm outside without a single backwards glance. Sylas remains rooted in place, staring out the opening of their temporary shelter, his lips parted, but lost for words. 

He never knows what to say when Sett tells him sweet things.

Clink.

The former demacian prisoner jumps at the sound of metal colliding against cold stone, his shoulders tensing as he takes a few steps back. Indigo eyes scan the floor of the cave, finding the cause of the sudden noise with a relieved sigh. 

It’s the strange metal box Sett had handed him before leaving. 

Raising a curious eyebrow, Sylas welcomes the distraction from his racing mind as he stoops over it, resting his elbows on his knees. There's an inscription on the bottom of the box as he flips it over in his hand. It reads, clear as day, ‘Settrigh’. 

“What...is this..?” Sylas murmurs to himself, confused as to what he’s looking at. Both the metal and the engraved design on the object do not look like anything from Ionia.

The mage takes a seat on the smooth ground below him, delicately flipping the item over back and forth. Sylas is so focused on figuring out what this thing is, that he forgets how cold and wet his clothing feels, despite an occasional full body tremor. He squints through the darkness, puzzling out what it could be. 

Why did keeping this thing dry matter? It looks like it’s designed to do that well enough on its own. Perhaps the metal would rust if wet for too long? Sentimental value maybe? 

It does have his full name on it.

Sylas smirks when he notices a thicker line within the decorative grooves, a little more than half way towards the middle, along with a tiny hinge on the spine of the box. 

“Interesting...”

It has a cap. 

With carefully applied pressure, Sylas flicks the top of the mysterious box back. A bright spark crackles to life before a single flame burns in its place, thin and shuddering ever so slightly from the harsh wind outside. He stares in wonder, still not entirely sure what he’s holding. He would know if the object is magical or not, he would see the glow, but this item is completely ordinary, wherever it comes from. The bright orange flame flickers, reflecting in the whites of his eyes. The little light relaxes him as he stares at it, now thinking about where Sett might have gotten this thing from.

Piltover maybe? Did Sett's connections run that far?

A great gust of wind suddenly blows past him, smothering the tiny flame and surrounding Sylas in chilled darkness once more. With a hiss of disappointment, Sylas flicks the peculiar box shut. He closes his hand around it, feeling a faint tingle of heat in his palm, but not nearly enough to warm his skin. 

Sylas then lifts his head to gaze out of the cave’s opening, watching the howling wind blow heavy gusts of snow past the entrance in a haze of sheer white. His thoughts are eating at him, as they often did when he is alone, anxiety twisting his heart. With a violent shiver, he pulls the drenched fur of his coat closer to his body, unable to ignore how cold he is. 

Sett still isn’t back. 

How long has it been?

Sett said that he could handle this, but had he just been putting up a front? Sylas knows that the brawler has to be as cold as he is, even with that higher vastayan body temperature. The longer time passes by, the further Sylas’ thoughts wander. 

"That man is like a minotaur in a hextech shop." Sylas dwells, resting his head on folded arms. 

Sett didn't remember his size or strength sometimes, leading the former pit boss to clumsily bump into edges of tables or miscalculate the quality of wooden barstools. Sylas had witnessed this endearing trait of his in person several times, especially after Sett had a few shots of liquor going. The mage’s brow furrows as he stares down at the ground, blue eyes unblinking as worry starts to replace fond memories.

What if he’s slipped and hurt himself? 

What if he can’t walk?

What if Sett is-

A thunderous roar of frustration and a slew of Ionian curses cause Sylas’ head to jerk upwards, his eyes wide with surprise.

“--fuck fuck fuck FUCK I HATE gettin' this damn WET--” Sett complains loudly as he stumbles ungracefully through the cave entrance, snarling each swear that pours from his lips. A few golden sparks fly from his shoulders and hair, fangs bared as he ducks his head lower, arms full of steaming, dry lumber. 

Sylas blinks, his expression a mixture of relief and shock.

“--this shit BETTER still be DRY--”

Sett wipes his reddened nose on the back of his coat sleeve, dropping a pile of wood to the floor with an echoing clatter. He then stands hunched over, panting like an exhausted animal, heated exhalations clouding the air around him. 

“--hair is fuckin' RUINED--”

With a rumbling growl that vibrates the inside of Sylas’ ribcage, the brawler begins to shake his hair out wildly, like a dog might after an unwanted bath. Flecks of water hit the stone walls, and a few find purchase on Sylas’ (now rather amused) face. 

“Welcome back.” 

“Huh?”

Sett’s reflective eyes snap wide open, his pupils thin and feral. He lifts his head far too fast, smacking it into the stone ceiling above with a dull thud. 

“SHIT!” the half-vastayan yelps, leaning over as he grips the crown of his head in reaction.

With a soft sigh of exasperation, Sylas gets up from his spot on the floor and walks over to him. He knows that when Sett gets worked up like this, he tends to not think as clearly. 

Sylas reaches for the half-vastayan's sopping orange hair and ears.

A low, irritated growl rumbles in Sett's throat, hints of gold still shimmering on wet strands of hair that lay in his face as he lifts his head. His upper lip curls for a split second, the unexpected pain having pushed him further into his instincts. White, razor sharp teeth reveal themselves. 

Sylas knows that Sett can be dangerous when he gets like this, but never had he turned on him. The red-head's eyes burn into the mage's own, looking angry but lost. 

The expression tugs on Sylas' heartstrings.

While Sett is strong, he still has weaknesses of his own. 

Having conditioned himself to fight for his life the moment he encounters pain, coupled with feral instincts imbued in him from birth, Sett occasionally loses himself in a burning desire to live.

To prove he's worthy of respect. 

To beat the cruel expectations life has set for him.

Sylas understands this well. 

"Hey now...come on...I think your hair looks rather nice when it's wet..." Sylas soothes the still snarling beast-man, leaning his damp forehead against Sett's.

Their eyes meet, and they stare at one another without saying anything. Sylas waits, allowing time for Sett's thin black pupils to slowly expand in their pools of molten gold. The brawler's panting breaths even out, his mouth still slightly agape as he breathes.

"That's it...You're alright…"

Sett snorts after a stuttering inhale, his eyelids closing. The thick scar on the bridge of his nose crinkles.

"...sorry." Sett murmurs, sounding like a child that's been scolded. His nose is running.

"I'm not upset, there's no need for apologies. Lets get that fire going, hmm?"

Sylas scratches behind Sett's cold ears, delighting in the small smile that grows on the man's lips. He knows his favorite spots, and though he can't see it, Sylas can imagine Sett's docked tail is wagging in response. 

"Mmm...yeah...that's right...the fire. The wood should be dry enough. You still have my lighter, right?"

So that's what it's called. 

Sylas lets him go, realizing he dropped it when Sett came in. He walks back to where he left it, scooping the metal box up as his partner starts arranging the lumber on the floor, close to the cave's opening. With his massive back turned, Sett looks as if he might belong in a place such as this.

"A lighter, huh?" Sylas asks him, crouching down beside Sett to help him stabilize a particularly unruly stick, "Tell me more. I've never seen anything like it." 

Sett chuckles, a grin on his face.

"They're actually real common in Piltover, but that one was custom made. Used to enjoy a smoke when I was stuck doin' finance paperwork for the pit. Smart to keep one on you if you're headed out somewhere cold." Sett explains, sticking his hand out to recieve it. 

Sylas places the lighter into Sett's open palm.

"Do you still?" Sylas questions, curiosity thick in his words.

Sett smirks as he looks the metal box over in his hand, affectionately running a sharp black claw over the inscription of his name. 

"Sometimes. Sort of a stress thing. Makes me feel calmer."

He turns his head to the mage squatting beside him, a wily look in his amber eyes. 

"Ma' can smell smokes’ from a mile away, so I've had to cut back. She hates the scent, thinks it's bitter.” Sett finishes with an embarrassed chuckle, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.

He really is the truest example of a mama's boy.

Sylas smiles after Sett returns his attention to setting up the fire. While he has no relationship with his own parents, he respects the love Sett carries for his mother. The woman has only ever been kind to him, offering home-cooked meals and knitted trinkets whenever they stopped by for a visit. 

Sylas still keeps the tiny yarn murkwolf she first gifted him in his pocket.

“You know Ma’ likes havin’ you around right? She's been beggin’ me to bring you home again for supper.” Sett tells him, words filled with fondness, “I’ve tried tellin’ her, but she’s still convinced you don’t eat enough.” Sett closes with a dry laugh, removing a handful of dried grass from his pocket and pushing it into the pyramid of wood he’s created.

Sylas sighs, rubbing his chin in an effort to hide a smile.

“She’s a worrier, just like her son.” he replies.

Sett then flicks the cap of the lighter back, shielding the little flame by cupping his other hand over it. A red blush colors his cheeks as he sets the brown grass aflame. 

“...hypocrite.” the former boss mumbles.

The two of them watch in silence as the fire grows, weak flames from the dried grass licking at the thinner sticks above. Faint ripples of heat begin to radiate towards them, making water drip from both of their hair. Sylas shudders, still freezing cold as he crosses his legs to sit down. Sett sniffles thickly, moving his hands closer to the smoldering wood as he relaxes into a sitting position too. 

It’s quiet now between them, an obvious question looming over both of their heads. 

Outside, the wind whistles. Their fire crackles occasionally, building up its strength. 

With unsteady, numb fingers, the mage starts undoing his knotted bun. Thick, black locks of hair are tangled and wet from the snowstorm, earning a hiss as he tries to free the band that keeps it together. Though it takes him a few painful minutes of struggling, his long hair eventually falls to his shoulders. When Sylas looks up, Sett’s eyes are on him. There is a deeper blush on his face and his ears are perked in interest.

“What? See something you like?” Sylas goads him playfully, cocking an eyebrow. He knows that Sett loves seeing his hair down.

The half-vastayan exhales deeply through his nose before he scoots closer to Sylas, removing the gap between them with an embarrassed smile. A deltoid twice the size of Sylas’ own bumps against him. The mage leans his head on Sett’s muscular arm, pulling his own around himself in an effort to get warm. 

Silence returns for a long while, but the two enjoy each other’s company as the fire steadily grows large enough to heat the cave. Sett unfastens the clasps on his coat, shrugging it off and laying it out flat to dry by the fire. He stretches his back out with a yawn, abdominal muscles rolling as they flex.

“You should take that coat off. It’s not doin’ you any favors wet.”

Sylas rolls his eyes before shooting the half-vastayan an incredulous look. 

“I won’t be taking anything off until you explain what you mentioned earlier Settrigh.”

Sett groans quietly, massaging the pressure point between his eyebrows. His ears lower, realizing he did indeed promise to explain himself. 

“...alright.” Sett sighs, yielding.

The brawler shifts his weight nervously in place, wondering how to start. He bridges his scarred fingers as he stares down at the stone floor, biting his lip for a moment in thought. 

“Well...I’ve been tryin’ to think of a way to tell you somethin’ real important...but I think I made a mistake. Like I said, this storm is, probably...augh, no, it's definitely my fault.” the half-vastayan explains vaguely, clicking his sharp claws together. He tilts his head to glance at Sylas, peeking through the limp orange hair that hangs in his face. 

Sylas looks up at the man, curious as always. 

“What did you do to upset the spirits of this mountain?” the mage inquires.

Sett reclines, leaning his bare back against the cave wall while redirecting his gaze up at the ceiling. His cheeks are very, very red.

“...It’s more of what I didn’t do...” Sett confesses sheepishly, trying to find his usual confidence. Every time he thinks of saying what he is about to, his stomach feels like it is full of grasshoppers.

Right now, he has a whole field of them hopping around. His hands are sweating.

Golden eyes move downwards to catch the gaze of perfect blue, firewood occasionally popping and filling shy silence. A bead of water runs from Sylas’ hair and down to his jaw, glistening in the firelight. 

Sett swallows. He can barely think straight when Sylas looks at him like that.

“What do you mean? We left offerings. We said the prayer. Did you forget something else?” Sylas questions him again, digging deeper for an answer. 

“...this place...this mountain...it’s…” 

“Go on.”

“...It’s where...people ask the spirits...for their blessing. To approve a union...as lovers.”

Sylas blinks. The mage looks like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. 

Sett’s cheeks burn hotter with a shyness he is not used to feeling.

“I was supposed to tell you at the peak, how I really feel, but...I got so damn nervous. You looked happy, so fuckin’ happy smilin’ like that. I didn’t want to ruin the moment for you. The spirits are upset because I hesitated...but I’m not going to any longer.”

“I don't understand. What are you trying to say?” Sylas questions again, his tone softer.

Sett takes Sylas’ hand into his own, and he runs the pad of his thumb across the mage’s. Both of them are littered with scars, old and new.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is...that I love you. I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Sylas can't comprehend how this can be true, how anyone could love him. 

How someone like Sett could love him. 

“That’s a lie--” Sylas breathes, misgiving blooming on his face.

Sett drapes an arm around the mage’s shoulder, pulling him a bit closer to his damp chest, before guiding Sylas’ chin towards his own. Their lips are almost touching.

“--It’s not. I’ll tell you as many times as you need. I love you Sylas.” Sett whispers, smiling at the sensation of stubble scratching his chin. 

“...I don't understand...” Sylas repeats, knowing that Sett means every word.

“Let me show you then.”


End file.
